Edgar Allen Poe: A Monologue
by Trippix
Summary: A short one act Monologue depicting the life and times of the great poet, told by Poe himself.  [Play Format]


A/N: For my 10th grade Drama Final, I had to write, direct, and perform a monologue for any historical figure of my choosing. I chose Edgar Allen Poe (Obviously) and sense I just came across this lurking in my Document folder, I thought those who enjoyed Edgar Allen Poe FanFiction might enjoy this. It's very abstract, as all monologues tend to be. I did all the necessary research, so it's historically accurate. It isn't very long; only about 1,400 words, but still mildly entertaining. I don't expect many reviews (if any), but I had nothing better to do. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with Edgar Allen Poe or his works. However, this narrative is an Original Document of mine. Anyone who copies this work is guilty of Copyright Infringement, not to mention bad Karma.

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**Edgar Allen Poe: A Monologue**

**_A play in one act_**

**Scene:**_ A dreary and dim-lit room. _POE_ sits center-left at a writing desk, hunched over a piece of parchment, quill scribbling furiously. He pauses, scratches something out, then mutters something the audience cannot decipher, most likely a string of curses. He abruptly sits up, crumbles the piece of paper into a small sphere, then throws it off over his shoulder. He stretches and yawns. Lights come up._

POE: (drowsily) Ugh… morning already?

POE _stands up. He is wearing all black. More details of the room is seen. There is a couch center-right, sitting at an angle and a dining table center-center. Center of the table sits a vase of dead flowers, and on both sides of the table sits a chair. On both ends of the table sits a china plate with elegant silverware on either side of them. POE rubs his eyes and blinks, as if adjusting to the light. He walks off stage, audience noticing a kind of drunken swagger to his step. He returns on stage, a wine bottle in hand._

POE: (to audience) Cheers…

_With a look of almost regret,_ POE_ raises the bottle to his lips, rotates it up-side down, and drains the contents in a few gulps. With the same look of regret, he eyes the bottle, turning it over in his hands, as if examining it._

POE: I've always been fond of the drink… I'm not positive of how long, or why… just that I've been consuming alcohol for as long as my memory permits. (chuckles softly) Now, I can't seem to live without it. Someday… I fear it may be the cause of my undoing. Not that I'm not undone. No, no. Far from it, in fact. (smiles and furrows eyebrows, as if trying to remember something) I remember one night… long ago when I came back to this very dwelling in, for lack of a better way to describe it, an "artistic spasm." I admit, I had indeed been drinking. Virginia, my darling wifey, god rest her soul, and I managed to quarrel ferociously that evening. (sighs) She spoke the words that she only thought and would never say…

POE_ gently sets the bottle on the table next to one of the plates, sits in the chair closest to the bottle, and begins to cut and eat imaginary food. After a few seconds of silence, he looks at the opposite end of the table, looks back down at his food, then does a double take._

POE: Darling… why are you crying? (pause) Please, do tell me what the matter is… (pause) Yes, darling, I'm here… It's Edgar. (another pause, this time accompanied by a look of confusion.) Darling, that-that can't be true. Never would have I forgotten something so important. Here, have a bit more wine. (POE pours invisible wine from the empty bottle into the glass) There, There… What did you say darling? A gift? Oh! For your birthday! (It's obvious he's forgotten.) Yes. Yes, of course.

POE _runs offstage, only to return a few seconds later holding a pamphlet triumphantly. He then slaps it down on the table next to where his opposing plate would be._

POE: Take a Gander at that, Virginia! No, Virginia, please… Come back. Come back! (long pause. POE slowly turns and addresses the audience.) We slept in separate rooms that night. I planned on sharing with her the news of my most recent publication: "The Prose Romances," for which she inspired a lot of. 'Tis true. I did forget her birthday. She was thirteen years my junior, which would have made her…(pauses and contorts face in concentration, as if thinking) twenty-three, a mere thirteen years old when we were wed. A seemingly dismal celebration on her family's part but nonetheless joyous on mine. Aside from Mrs. John Allen, my wealthy uncle's wife, Mrs. Clemm was possibly the only mother I had ever known… But I shall not bore you with ode to my blinding motherly love for her, which I still have today. My own mother was an actress, a mistress to the stage and song, and to my father, who devoted himself likewise. Both, bound to each other and both were deeply in love, (pause) which is not true, but often times I find sanctuary in the falsehood. Both also fond of their drink, which is true. I take comfort in the fact that I was born drunk and didn't develop it over time… You observed me put down a pint and a half when we began our conversation, did you not? (smiles) You didn't think that people actually learn that, did you? No, no. It's hereditary! (smile falls) I was merely a toddler when they both passed on, or so I'm told. I then joined the company and family of Mrs. and Mr. John Allen, who was a very wealthy tobacco farmer and didn't leave me one cent of inheritance when he died. I hope you don't mind, but I'd prefer it if we didn't speak of him again during this conversation. Anyway, together, we all departed the solemn city of Richmond and toured all of England, where I received the finest of educations. After a few years, we returned only to receive bad crops and weather, and me to be sent off to the University of Virginia, only recently built by Thomas Jefferson himself. Pardon me, but I cannot help speaking of John again, though I asked you not to. I'd like to add to the affect so you may feel my hatred. When he shipped me off to that mediocre school they attempt to pass off as a university, I had only enough money to pay for a semester, my boarding, and my books, leaving me with a single dollar in my pocket….. I suppose you can understand why I resorted to gambling. But that only ended in a argument of ownership and I soon left and joined the army. (smiles softly and looks down, as if remembering.) T'was almost the worst time of my life but often the most inspiring. I wrote my very first published poem while serving the U.S. Government, Tamerlane, though I wasn't able to publish it until I discharged myself from the army. (Looks up again with a thoughtful look, once again, trying to remember something) That would have been…. 1829.…I would have been twenty years of age…. And that was also half my life ago. Since then, I've published many minor accomplishments and also funded and invested in countless magazines, all of which I had some part or another in editing. I have hope that one day, I'll be as wealthy as the men who I tip my hat to, and more. But as for now, I'm in endless dept, I need vast amounts of alcohol in order to sustain me and yet, here I am! Awake on this beautiful morning and not unconscious in a ditch somewhere! And if that isn't enough, I plan to attend a party of Mister Rufus Griswold, my former literary executor, to discuss some "Business." Oh! Look at the time! If you'll excuse me, I've much to do and very little time to do it in before the party.

_And with that,_ POE _retreats to his beginning position, at the writing desk and starts to furiously scribble away once more, as if he'd never spoken a word._

**CURTAIN**

_After a minute or two, the actor/actress who played POE will walk upstage and reveal him/herself to the audience, give a brief epilogue of the death of Edgar Allen Poe, then retreat back offstage. This play is set late September 1849, a mere week and a half before his death on October 7._

**Stage notes:** POE _can be portrayed by either male or female. Costume should be plain, but all black. Period costume is not essential. To contrast lack of costume elaboration, Set should reflect that of a disheveled upper-class town home of the mid nineteenth century. Oil lamp on the desk, black and white photographs, embroidered and buttoned couch, hat wrack, etc.. Background not needed. Most should be to the director's discretion. Lighting is simple, dictated mostly by the actions mentioned above._


End file.
